Memories are like gumbo served in a darkened Louisiana roadhouse: it is best not to stir them -- or at least not until you've had a Jax or two.
I rarely think about the five years that I spent at Boca High. Although I didn't face the profound and awful calamities that secretly devoured some of you, I never considered my adolescence a time of sweet and happy youth. As with most teen-aged boys, I was graceless, blundering, and without even the vaguest inkling.
But some aspects of those years do linger pleasantly.
Scent holds the memory of a place. I cannot peel a grapefruit or cut a mango without a torrent of remembrance pouring over me. There was a smell of Boca: the flower-smell of jasmine when I ran at night, the sea-scent of the inlet, the spice-scent of my parents' cupboard, the fruit-scent of Surinam cherries and papayas. Sometimes I will stand in the grocery breathing a double handful of guavas and be transported a thousand miles and three decades. And I will confess that I have sniffed English Leather and Canoe at Wal-Mart, and felt pimples breaking out.
There were tastes: fresh-caught grouper, grilled; black beans; hot Cuban bread; the pitchers of limeade that my father would lovingly prepare for me after football practice; the flat, warm film of cafeteria milk.
I have stood in the surf on St. Martins and on the Plage Graniers... that sound... that sound. I could travel to Chima Tosa and beyond, and still the rhythm of the surf would take me to Boca Raton, 1969. But there were also the sounds of A.M. and LP: Laurendo Almeida and Joni Mitchell late at night on "China's Thing"; the energetic bleat of WQAM from a VW's radio; each new Beatles album played again and again and again.
And there were other rich senses. Ladies of the Class of 1969, I am certain that the decades have bestowed upon you a patina of loveliness and character and grace. As I looked through our class photographs, my heart was broken anew by your exquisite, impossible beauty: orchids and hyacinths and love-lies-bleeding. Ah, if you had only known me in a year or two! In college, I became sure and cool - not at all mortified about actually speaking to a pretty girl.
Even that was many years ago. I have been married to a beautiful and clever woman for a quarter of a century. I live in a pleasant little college town and have a seven-year-old son who is my heart's delight. I have been to strange and wonderful places and done bold and satisfying things. And I never, ever make it further south than Blue Mountain Beach or Econfino Springs.
Still, there our times when I lie in bed in the darkness and almost hear the whistle of the City of Miami or the East Coast Champion, trains that passed in our night, taking us from one dream and toward another. Still, there are times when the colors of a Japanese lantern or a passing riff from a Young Rascals' tune will stir up my bowl of roadhouse gumbo - and it is always tastier than I ever remembered.
Chuck Hill
Class of 1969
We've received a lot of wonderful response concerning Chuck's essay. If you'd like to drop him a line and let him know just how his writing made you feel, he can be reached at coteau@mindspring.com.
Sad to say, I missed our 20th reunion. It really wasn't anyone's fault. Living here in Maryland, I don't think anyone could have located me if they tried, as well, I didn't know where to begin to touch base with anyone as the event was approaching. Perhaps I could have tried harder, and perhaps I should have.
I recently viewed the video that was produced covering the class of 1968's reunion that was held in Boca Raton during July of 1988. Kathy Chenoweth Huber was kind enough to lend it to me.
What was the impact?
Let me say this... the mighty, macho hockey player, Gilmour Tuttle (my alias), grizzled and scarred as I am, was reduced to tears. I sat there, motionless, and watched the entire video, from beginning to end, without interuption. I recognized some, and others I didn't. A collage/slide show showing the scenes of the times accompanied with music of the era was totally mezmerizing! Pictures of classmates, sporting events, the Vietnam war, the hippies, the works... it was all there. It was very moving.
How all my classmates had grown, how they had changed. There were beards, moustaches, much good nature, some short people now towered (Gordon), and the ladies... what can I say. Simply beautiful!
The picnic at the beach summed it all up. That got to me the most! There were families with kids. Everyone was grown up. There were productive members of society that were spawned from the high school I hold dear to my heart. In a way, maybe, it was like a parent watching his or her children grow. I can't quite explain it, but this feeling of pride began to overtake me.
If there was a time machine, the first thing I'd do would be to go back in to time and attend the reunion I dearly missed. I'm not jealous at all... just very envious.
For those of you out there, just surfing through, and you have a 20th reunion "yet to be", please take my advice.... attend it! Relish the moment. Take my word for it.
To my fellow classmates of Boca high... I love you all! Thanks for letting me be part of the Boca Raton High School experience.
Gary Garvin
Class of 1968